


Take Your Cities, One By One

by Poemsingreenink



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Kidnapping, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-04 15:42:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5339564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poemsingreenink/pseuds/Poemsingreenink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two kidnappings in one week has to be some kind of record. Oliver should look it up once the dust settles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As far as I know Philip is still alive and waiting outside the Hapstall mansion looking for Catherine. The blood that Bonnie is covered with at the end of the Winter Finale is probably Sinclair’s. Or maybe it’s not.

At least this time he wasn't holding anything when a stranger broke in. There was no milk to spill across the tile floor, no fridge left open to waste energy and no abandoned groceries to frighten Connor. No sign of a struggle now that he was actually being kidnapped. 

(When had _actually_ become such a horrible word?)

Oliver tried to pry the gloved hand away from his mouth, and grunted when his arm was twisted even further behind his back. His eyes darted around the empty living room, but Connor was still gone, and no one magically appeared to assist him. He was alone, in his home, with a dangerous stranger. Again.

Oliver kicked back, and connected hard with the attacker's shin. He might as well have connected with the wall all the good it did him. 

Straight ahead were the wide paneled windows that filled the living room with warm sunlight in the afternoon. They gave Oliver a direct view into his across the street neighbor’s apartments. He didn’t enjoy seeing the fighting couples across the way or want anyone looking into his home while he chopped vegetables for dinner, but now Oliver would have appreciated a friendly peeping Tom. Some nice person who could call the police while they drank their morning coffee, and checked the weather report. 

He was out of luck. The blinds were closed. Connor always closed them, casting the apartment in shades of shadow. Oliver’s electricity bill was getting ridiculous. 

_Anyone could see us, Ollie._

The edges of the world were starting to run together. Whatever chemical was being held over his nose had to be to blame for that, and the short, rabbit-quick breaths Oliver was taking were only helping it along. His knees buckled as his eyes slipped shut, and then he was wrapped in darkness.

* * *

 

 

Connor was yelling. "This is the plan? This is not a plan!"

"Keep your voice down."

He'd heard Connor yell before; at the T.V., on the highway, at the squirrels that liked to tap on their window early in the morning. Not at him, but considering that this was Oliver's second kidnapping in a week they might be due for a fight. 

"Why did you do this? When did you do this? _When_?"

"Calm down." 

Frank. That was Frank calming Connor down, which was great since being kidnapped had left Oliver’s body too heavy to sit up, and his mind too fuzzy to build sentences. 

"You couldn't have just called him?" Laurel joined the conversation. The edges of her voice cracking with exhaustion. "Jesus, Frank.”

"I didn’t have time to play nice," Frank countered. "Now the four of you were here doing research for Annalise. He stopped by to drop something off, stayed to help and fell asleep on the couch. If anyone asks we were all here, all night.”

"No," Connor countered. "No, this is not happening."

"You want to kick him out of the nice warm alibi?"

"I want him 1,000 miles away from this!"

Frank scoffed. "So tomorrow when the cops break down the door looking for whoever murdered Philip, he can say what? That he was alone in his apartment illegally hacking someone else's computer?"

Oliver swallowed. He needed to tell Frank that his lap top was still in pieces. He hadn’t hacked anyone in at least twenty-four hours, but the steady throbbing in his temples was muting most of his desires. 

"Shut up! That's not what happened. We don't even know who killed Philip. Bonnie said-."

"Catherine Hapstall killed him,” Frank explained, slowly like he was talking to a child. Frank was an island of calm that Connor kept crashing against like a wave. “Just like she did everything else. Walsh, there's a police report naming your boo as Philip’s cyber-stalker. If it’s not her, guess who the first one they arrest will be?”

"Stop calling him that. Stop calling him anything! Stop even looking at him."

"Connor." Michaela's voice was horse, like she's been crying or screaming. "He's right." 

“This is insane. You keep making it worse, and you just left him here on the _couch_?"

"Did you want me to put him in the basement?"

A hand fell on Oliver's chest, but the "No!" that hit the air came from yet another voice. This kidnapping was getting really crowded. 

"No one else is going in the basement," Wes said. 

The hand on Oliver's chest pressed down a little harder.

"He'll need clothes," Laurel said. "People don’t stop by law offices barefoot and in pajamas."

"Did you drag him out of bed?" Connor snapped. "Of course you did. That's just what we do around here. Did you scale the balcony too? Cut a hole in the window to get inside?"

"I stole your key dumbass." 

He needed to get up. Connor was unraveling, Connor’s co-workers spoke as though the world were ending , and there was something digging right between his shoulder-blades. Oliver gritted his teeth, and opened his eyes only to shut them immediately with a groan. 

"Connor," Laurel said. "He's waking up."

“What do we say?”

“Wes! Wait! Where are you going?”

“It’s bright,” Oliver mumbled.

“I’ll get it. I’ll get it.” 

The clack of the blinds as they crashed against the window-sill was as loud as a gunshot, and Oliver fought the urge to bury his nose into the back of the couch. 

"Ollie? Oliver can you-what the hell, Frank!"

A heavy hand landed on Oliver’s shoulder, and he tentatively opened his eyes again. The world was blurry without his glasses or contacts, but even Oliver couldn’t mistake the familiar bearded face that was leaning over him. 

“There he is. Try to sit up. There’s a lot to go over.”


	2. Chapter 2

Before the morning was over Hair Gel was going to take a swing at him. Frank would put money on it. 

The sharp broken piece of what had once been a mug was spinning near the toe of his shoe, and he bent down to retrieve it with a grunt and only minimal knee cracking. In this position he got a good look at just how scuffed the night’s activities had left his shoes. Not like it was going to matter. These shoes, the gloves and maybe his tie had a date with an incinerator, but it was the principal of the thing. 

“Shit! I’m sorry.” Oliver tried to kneel down and collect the pieces, but Walsh pushed him back onto the couch.

“Don’t. You’re not wearing shoes. You’ll cut yourself.” Walsh looped his pinky through the amputated handle, and fished it out of the puddle of coffee. “It was my fault anyway. I fumbled the hand off.” 

Frank silently agreed, but to be fair the ring of bruises around Oliver’s wrist was turning a shocking array of colors, and Walsh was still a little skittish. Most people wouldn’t blame the guy for reacting badly. Frank did, but he doubted Walsh cared.

Walsh caught his eye as he stood, and scowled when Frank smiled pleasantly. He jerked his head toward the kitchen. 

“I’ll get you another one, Ollie,” Walsh said once his hands were full of blue ceramic. “I’ll be right back.”

Frank shared a glance with Laurel. It wasn’t a request or an invitation, but Laurel pushed herself off the far wall to follow Walsh into the kitchen, Frank hot on her heels.

Walsh dumped the pieces of mug into the sink, and empty handed whirled back around to face them. 

“You’re a sociopath,” Walsh said. 

Frank’s eyebrows went up. “Excuse me?”

Laurel shoved her way past Walsh and pushed a few of the larger pieces down the drain. She turned on the water, and then flipped on the garbage disposal. The grinding, crunch made Frank cringe. Annalise wasn’t going to be pleased if they damaged her house while she was in surgery. More words tumbled out of Walsh’s mouth only to be eaten up by the noise. Frank tipped his head to the side, and tapped his ear before moving closer. Laurel came with, and the three of them formed a triangle as they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their heads bent inward.

“Normal people don’t-” Walsh repeated. 

“Normal people don’t cut up bodies in the woods,” Frank interrupted. 

Walsh went white. 

“You really want to compare notes on normal?” Frank asked. 

“Frank,” Laurel said. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bruised, but there was still something working behind them. Weighing and measuring the events of the night in an attempt to understand what was needed. Frank fell just a little bit more in love with her as the possibilities flickered behind her eyes. “I need to know why you did this.”

Frank shrugged. “I had Catherine in the car.”

“What?” Walsh hissed.

“She was knocked out, and in the backseat. Did you want me to explain that to him? Did you want him to see that?”

He thought about taking a step forward, and breaking their little triangle formation to see if he could wake up Walsh’s right hook. The guy went to boarding school. If he didn’t know how to throw a punch Frank would eat his vest. 

“We tell him what then?” To Frank’s frustration Walsh retreated, and worriedly rubbed the back of his neck.

Frank frowned. He hadn’t planned that far ahead. Hadn’t had the time, and while he’d never admit it out loud he knew he’d been sloppy here. 

_You lack basic common sense……_

“He hit his head,” Laurel threw out. “And if he remembers anything about Frank being in your apartment it’s just...nightmares caused from leftover anxiety from Philip breaking in.”

“He had less anxiety about that than you’d think,” Walsh said, darkly. “Why wouldn’t I just take him to the hospital?”

“Because it-,” Laurel paused to rub her temples. “No wait only part of that will work. He didn’t hit his head. Just passed out. It happened here. At the office. You called him. You were panicking and needed him to bring something over immediately. Tease him a little about how he didn’t even bothering to change out of his pajamas. He fainted, and but we don’t know why. Frank grabbed him as he went down.”

“He’s heavier than I thought, and I didn’t have a great grip on him,” Frank agreed. “Hence the bruises on the wrist. That’s good, Laurel.”

“Don’t compliment me right now,” Laurel snapped. 

“People don’t just pass out!” Walsh said. 

Laurel bit her lip. “People on new medications sometimes do.”

Walsh froze, and the panicked expression painted across his face shifting into a calm, icy smirk.  
Frank shifted his weight, ready to move in-case the swing he’d been predicting came for Laurel instead of him. Walsh didn’t strike him as the type, but Frank had given up on types years ago. The punch never came. Instead, Walsh snorted and then laughed. 

“This is Hell. I’m in Hell.” 

“Give your keys to Frank and we’ll go get Oliver’s car. This can work, okay. It needs to work.”

“I can’t keep lying to him,” Walsh said.

“If you want to protect him you will.” Laurel lifted her hands, empty palms facing Walsh, but she didn’t move closer or try to touch him. “Connor, maybe we should all go to jail, but I don’t think he should. Do you think he deserves what we deserve?”

Frank almost took her hand. Laurel wasn’t going to jail. He’d pin everything on Prom Queen, the Puppy, Doucheface or Hair Gel before he let that happen, but she didn’t like to be petted. Didn’t respond well to coddling or comfort during stress. Especially not in front of an audience. 

Whatever arguments Walsh had been harboring slipped away, and he buried his face in his hands. Slowly, Laurel leaned around him and turned off the garbage disposal and the running water. The quiet was as sudden as a gun-shot. 

“Go back in there,” Laurel said, softly. “Lie. Lie to keep him safe.”

Walsh broke away, and moved swiftly toward the other room. He paused at the doorway and then swung around to toss Laurel his keys. 

“His keys will be in green bowl in the living room,” he said. “Try not to kidnap anyone while you’re there.”

The door swung shut behind him with a bang.

Laurel sniffed. She wiped her eyes, and then looked to Frank. 

“We’re horrible people,” she said. 

“No.” Frank shook his head. “No, we’re smart survivors who protect our own.”

Laurel glanced to the living room where the muffled sound of Wes’ voice was pressing against the door, and didn’t respond. 

“And you’re amazing,” he said. “Absolutely amazing.”

He leaned forward hoping she’d help close the gap, but she put a firm hand on his chest. 

“We have a car to get.”

Frank pulled away with a shrug. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Get moving. I’ll follow you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are probably a fair amount of holes in this Keating 4 + Frank plan, but I'm kind of infatuated with the 'create chaos and write your way out of it' theory that Annalise subscribed to in the Winter Finale. So that's how this showed up.


End file.
